CHAPTER IX HAVING BECOME A NEWSPAPER WRITER, HERBERT LOOKS FOR NEW

WORLDS TO CONQUER

In the early part of the winter Mr. Brooks was taken ill with what the doctor diagnosed as grippe. He thought at first that he would be about in a few days; but the days lengthened into weeks, and even then the physician would not permit him to leave the house. In the beginning of his illness the editor did a great deal of his work at home, sending the copy to the office in time for the regular edition of the Banner. But as time wore on the medical man frowned upon this, declaring that it was retarding his recovery.

One day the editor sent for Herbert, and after some questions regarding himself and the office, said:

“Herbert, I’m going to place a new responsibility on you. The doctor has forbidden my doing any more writing. I want you to take my place. I want you to write the editorials and as many of the local items as possible. In short, I want you to manage the Banner until I am able to be about again. Will you do it?”

“Gladly,” replied Herbert.

From that day he felt an added importance, although he did not show it by act or word. He must have had a natural instinct for the newspaper business, for everything moved along with remarkable smoothness and despite the fact that he had to labor incessantly he was fond of his work.

Subscribers noticed an improvement in the Banner. The local paragraphs became more numerous and were filled with human interest. The editorials also were crisp and to the point. Indeed they became a decided feature of the paper whereas they were formerly accepted as a painful necessity. One day an old reader of the paper who came in to renew his subscription to the paper, said:

“I want to congratulate you on the good paper you are getting out. This is especially true of the editorial columns. I find the comment on the news to be short and snappy. This is much better than the long articles which used to be more or less instructive, but generally as dull as sermons. How do you do it? You must have some secret method. What is it?”

Herbert smiled at this sweeping praise. He pointed to a little motto which hung over his desk.

“I don’t know,” he said, “unless it is because I follow the advice on that card.”

The little inscription to which he pointed said simply:

“Brevity is the soul of wit.”

“That is as true to-day,” he remarked, “as when it was first penned by the great poet.”

Herbert did not tell his caller one of the means he had used to arrive at such a desirable end. When he began writing editorials he found himself almost unconsciously padding them out to a half column and a column in length. He pondered long and earnestly over the means of breaking himself of the habit. Finally he hit on a plan which was as simple as it was effective. He cut his copy paper in such a length that it would not hold more than eight or ten lines. When he got an idea for an editorial comment, he endeavored to express it clearly and pointedly in the number of words that would go on the small sheet of paper. At first it was a very difficult task, but practice makes perfect, and at length he found that he could do it with comparative ease and eventually reached the state of things which had won him unstinted praise.

He had not been in charge of the Banner long before he realized that the local news was the most important thing in the paper to the people of Cleverly. Accordingly he bent all of his energies to the improvement of that department. He pressed the postmaster into his service. He induced some of the young men of the town to contribute, and as a result there was not a wedding, a birth or a funeral that was not fully reported in the Banner. He laid great stress on personal items, taking the ground that a pleasant reference to anyone not only interested the person mentioned, but also their relatives and friends as well as the people of the town. If a church raised its mortgage, or a citizen put an addition to his house, or the school gave an entertainment it was sure to be found in the local columns. It was not surprising, therefore, that the subscribers looked forward with eagerness for their paper and complained bitterly if, by chance, they failed to receive it.

Herbert avoided rumors and scandals with scrupulous care. He made up his mind that as long as he was at the helm such things would not find their way into the weekly. He remembered, with bitterness, the stories that had been circulated about his father, and while they had been well nigh forgotten by the people of the town, they were still treasured up in a corner of his memory. He frequently talked with his mother, and although she gave him no encouragement, persisted in a determination to clear his father’s name.

“There was some strange mystery connected with father’s last day,” he said, “and I will never rest entirely happy until it has been fully cleared. I believe the suggestion that he stole that money was a base calumny, but I will not be content until the world is convinced that he was innocent.”

His face would darken at this, and he would add:

“And when his innocence is proved the guilt of someone else will be established, and that person, whoever it may be, need expect no mercy from me.”

One day when he had been talking in this strain his mother said:

“Herbert, I want you to drop this sort of thing. You are on the verge of man’s estate and you should look forward and not backward. I feel the blot on your father’s good name quite as keenly as you do, but I would be most unhappy if I thought you would permit it to embitter your life. This is a busy world, and the people in it--men and women--have little time for the person who is nursing a grievance.”

“You mean well, mother,” replied the young journalist, “but you do not realize the feeling I have. It is not a feeling of bitterness; it is not a grievance; it is a desire--a desire that will not be quenched--for justice. No matter where I go or what I may do, this desire remains with me, and some day it shall be gratified.”

She stroked his hands fondly and looked at him with undisguised admiration.

“While you live your father will never die--you resemble him in more ways than one. Go ahead and carry out your own designs. I am content to have you do as you will.”

In the meantime the circulation of the Banner was increasing by leaps and bounds. The job printing office was going at full speed. This condition of affairs began to show itself in the accounts. Noah Brooks, who was beginning to improve in health, noticed it with evident satisfaction.

“Herbert,” he said when the young man visited him one day, “I am satisfied that you have made good. I have resolved to make your salary ten dollars a week. Probably you are worth more than that, but it is all I can do at present.”

“It will be gratefully accepted,” replied Herbert. “It is a proof that you are satisfied with my work, and that is compensation in itself.”

During this time the young man, who was soon to celebrate his twenty-first birthday, had not neglected to advance himself in the art of writing. He felt that this was to be his trade, and that if a man devoted years to the work of becoming a proficient carpenter or bricklayer there was no reason why he should not also give time and study to the work of learning to write. He had left school, but Mr. Anderson, who had been his devoted friend from the time he had routed the other boys from the schoolhouse on “barring out day,” very kindly offered to give him a special course of instruction in English composition. By this means the long winter passed away very quickly, and Herbert advanced rapidly in his chosen business.

One evening when Herbert came home from his studies, a little earlier than usual, he found Mary Black in the parlor with his mother. After the usual cordial greetings she said timidly:

“I hope you have forgiven us for the dreadful things that occurred before your father’s death.”

“We have nothing to forgive you for, Mary,” said Herbert gently. “If there has been any obligation it is entirely on our side. I am sure that neither mother nor I can ever forget your kindness.”

She flushed a little at this, and then after some hesitancy, said:

“It’s not that. I know you have only kind feelings toward me. But I want you to be charitable to father and--and to Arthur.”

She hung her head, and Herbert, a trifle embarrassed, made no reply. He glanced up and noticed that her eyes were red and her face careworn. His mother noticed the look, and quickly stepped in the breach.

“Mary is in trouble,” she said; “Arthur left home last week and has not been heard of since then.”

“Oh,” cried Herbert impulsively, going up and taking her hands. “I am very, very sorry to hear this, and if I can assist you in any way you need only command me.”

Her only reply was to weep quietly. Mrs. Harkins took her in her arms and soothed her with motherly kindness. Herbert felt quite awkward at this scene. First he stood on one foot and then on the other. Finally for want of something to say he exclaimed:

“You can rest assured that I have no feelings of resentment toward your father or Arthur. I was angry with them, very angry; but I am not vindictive.”

He did not add that the fact that she was the daughter of one and the sister of the other caused him to utter such a generous sentiment.

“Have you any idea where Arthur has gone?” he asked a moment later.

“No,” she replied; “that is what makes it so distressing. If it were not for the uncertainty we might feel resigned.”

“Did anyone go with him?”

“We are not sure, but he was seen with Harry Adler just before he left.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Herbert. “Then it’s ten to one he has gone to New York. Adler has a perfect mania for that place.”

“I’m sorry,” ejaculated Mrs. Harkins, “because if that’s so, Arthur is in very bad company in a very wicked place.”

In spite of himself, Herbert had to laugh at the vehemence with which his mother uttered her sentiments. After some further conversation he said:

“I may be able to help you, Mary. You know Mr. Anderson has gone to New York to accept a position as teacher in a private academy. I’ll write to him and ask him to keep on the lookout for Arthur. Of course New York is a big city and it seems like looking for a needle in a haystack, but it’s just possible he may run across him. Anyhow it will do no harm to try.”

The letter was dispatched that night. As he posted it Herbert little thought it was to be the messenger which was to summon him to newer, higher and more responsible duties. But a kind fate which conceals from us the misfortunes we are to undergo also hides from us the path which is to lead to happiness and prosperity. Although Noah Brooks had returned to the office and was able to resume his work, he insisted that Herbert should continue the writing he had been doing so well.

Three days later Herbert received a letter postmarked New York. He rightly surmised that it was from Mr. Anderson. It was brief and cordial. It said that he had heard nothing of Arthur Black, but that if he should run across him in the future he would immediately notify the family at Cleverly. There was a postscript to the letter, and unusual for a man’s postscript, it contained the most important thing of all. Mr. Anderson said that he had become acquainted with the city editor of the Argus, one of the important daily newspapers of the metropolis, and that he had the disposal of a position on the local staff which would pay fifteen dollars a week at the start, with a prospect for promotion and increased salary at an early date. The teacher said that Herbert’s letter had reached him opportunely and that he had strongly recommended his young friend for the position. The city editor, he added, would give him one week in which to either accept or decline the offer.

Herbert jumped at least two feet in the air when he had finished reading this letter. It offered him an opportunity he had secretly coveted for a long while. He hurried home to show the communication to his mother. Dinner had been served and she was waiting for him. As he took his place at the table, he tossed the envelope over to her.

“A letter from New York,” he said.

She read it through carefully. When she reached the postscript a shadow crossed her face.

“What are you going to do about it?” she asked.

He appreciated fully the meaning of that question. He understood that the answer to it meant either the continuance of their present comfortable home life or a temporary painful separation. But he knew his mother well too, and he realized from her tone and manner that she did not intend to advise him one way or the other. She was interested in his welfare and would let him settle the question for himself. Nevertheless she waited, with some anxiety, for the reply. Herbert walked over and put his arms about her shoulders as if to reassure her, and then replied in a low tone:

“I will make my decision within twenty-four hours.”